Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/188

154 LXXXII.

But, midst the throng in merry masquerade,

Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain,

Even through the closest searment half betrayed?

To such the gentle murmurs of the main

Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain;

To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd

Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain:

How do they loathe the laughter idly loud,

And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud!

LXXXIII.

This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece,

If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast:

Not such as prate of War, but skulk in Peace,

The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost,

Yet with smooth smile his Tyrant can accost,

And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword:

Ah! Greece! they love thee least who owe thee most—

Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record

Of hero Sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde!